


Say Yes

by 221BeStillMyHeart (HighTimesWithHiddles)



Series: Reticence [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Attempted Sexual Assault, BAMF John, BAMF John Watson, Big Brother Mycroft, Blink and you'll miss it, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Don't judge a book by it's cover, Exhibitionism, Feels, Fluff, Gunplay, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, If You Squint - Freeform, Jealous John, John Makes Deductions, John has done a lot of shit in the past, John is very good, John knows what he's doing, Kissing, M/M, Military Kink, Mycroft is a good big brother, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Possessive Behavior, Possessive John, Praise Kink, Rimming, Sherlock Gets It Wrong, Tagging as I go, UST, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism, asking for what you want, but it absolutely does not happen, but it will definitely be resolved, john watson is a sex god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-05-19 20:24:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5979934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HighTimesWithHiddles/pseuds/221BeStillMyHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finally gets around to asking for the things he wants, but John needs him to be sure before they go down that path. He comes up with a rather ingenious way of obtaining that certainty.</p><p>Or</p><p>5 times John asked Sherlock to crawl and the one time he didn't have to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mssmithlove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mssmithlove/gifts), [Azrael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azrael/gifts).



> I'm gifting this fic to two of the most amazing people I know. The unfailingly kind, gracious, and talented [Mssmithlove](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mssmithlove/pseuds/Mssmithlove) and the lovely, wonderful, and witty woman that is [Azrael](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Azrael/pseuds/Azrael) .I love you both very very much. Thank you soo much for all of your support, and even more for the gift of your friendship. You're both rockstars. 
> 
> This fic got very out of hand. It was never supposed supposed to be more than maybe 800 words, and well, you can see how that turned out.
> 
> I'm SUPER nervous to be posting this as it's my first ever try at porn on here so please be kind, although corrections and constructive criticism are always welcome as I have no beta.
> 
> I'm writing 4 chapters ahead, and after today I'll be posting every week on Wednesday until its done!
> 
> Oh and also, I completely and unashamedly abuse italics... Just a heads up.

The first time John asks, it's because Sherlock can't stand another day without John's hands on him.

                                                                            ********

"3 months John, 3 months we've been together and you still won't touch me, hell, you still sleep in your own bed." Sherlock rants. 

 

"Contrary to popular belief I am well outside the realm of virginity and I would very much like to have sex with you." Sherlock continues calmly even though he's screaming inside. The only thing keeping him from shouting the walls down is that he knows if he goes all stroppy John will simply shut down, and this entire conversation will be for naught. 

 

John sighs heavily. "Well what did you expect when you told me you didn't like sex? It doesn't have to be a part of our dynamic Sherlock, I'm more than happy just to kiss your perfect lips. I swear I am." He answers.

 

"Well I am _not_." Sherlock grouses. "Besides, I never said I didn't like sex.

 

"No you didn't. You said that you didn't think you'd like sex with _me_." John tosses back, and yes maybe he is a just a tiny bit stung by the idea that he put Sherlock off sexually.

 

"No. I said that there are things I want that I don't think you're personally prepared to give me. That wasn't a dig at you John. That was me, telling you, that as always I am a bit harder to please than most, and that your general mild mannered disposition does not lend itself well to my inclinations."

 

John stares pointedly at him for a long moment, and Sherlock wonders idly if this is how people feel when he deduces them.

 

"Did you just tell me that you like kinky sex and you're afraid that I won't?" John asks, head cocked in earnest interest.

 

He waves his hand in the air to quiet Sherlock as something else comes to him.

 

"Wait, you said I'm too 'mild mannered' to give you what you like. So what, domination?" 

 

Sherlock doesn't answer, he simply stares straight ahead at the wall opposite the sofa.

 

"Right, domination then. What exactly about that are you saying I can't give you?" John asks in a low voice.

 

"Submission." Sherlock finally relents. "I want to feel owned and possessed and dominated just as much as I want to feel cherished and pampered and cared for." Sherlock sucks in a breath and continues. Now he's started he can't stop. 

 

"John Watson you are very nearly perfect, but you are much too _kind_ to play that sort of role, and that's okay. I swear to you that it is all fine, just like you always say. It isn't something I need to be happy." He says, and then sidles up closer to John. 

 

"The only thing," he says in _that_ voice, deliberately smooth and smoky.  "That I need to be happy," he leans in and starts peppering soft kisses over John's neck and jaw. "Is you." He finishes with a chaste kiss to John's lips, and stands to make his way over to the bookshelf where his violin case is leaning. 

 

Before he even bends to pick it up, John is on him. He spins Sherlock gently in his arms and presses him  against the small sliver of wall between the window and the bookcase. Those strong, sturdy hands dragging lightly over the thin frame of Sherlock's torso.

 

Sherlock gasps and John kisses him. And kisses him. And _kisses_ him.

 

John kisses him long and soft and slow until Sherlock's heart races and his knees go weak. He kisses him until his eyes drift closed and his brain goes still and silent. John kisses him until those thin, pale, graceful arms come up to twine around his shoulders and Sherlock's mouth falls open on a soft sigh that slips unbidden from his lips.

 

John takes ruthless advantage. 

 

His tongue sweeps out of his mouth and into Sherlock's with absolutely no hesitation. He laves the hot wet muscle across the roof of Sherlock's mouth and Sherlock can feel the small smirk that tips his doctors lips when Sherlock groans, a desperate rumbling sound from deep inside his chest as John lays claim to every inch of the slick, honey-sweet cavern before stretching his arms to place a hand against the wall on either side of Sherlock's head.

 

Sherlock waits to feel caged. Waits for this to feel forced and contrived. He waits for the annoyance and agitation to well up inside him so that he can push John away as gently as John's pride will stand and resign himself to a life of brilliantly passionate, yet slightly unfulfilling vanilla sex. He already knows he will do this to keep John.

 

Sherlock knows full well he will do _anything_ to keep John Watson.

 

These expectations mean he _doesn't_ expect the warmth that spreads quickly across his entire body like its path is being forged by the blood in his veins. He definitely doesn't expect it to flare into white hot fire that leaves a rose pink flush on his skin when John finally pulls away from his mouth and drops his head to drag his tongue up the long, unblemished column of Sherlock's throat.

 

Sherlock bites back another moan and grips John's shoulders hard, trying to hold on as he attempts to control the all consuming _want_ that washed over him the moment John's mouth met his. 

 

He's taking deep breaths, and giving his pounding heart a stern talking to when John begins to speak against the sensitive skin of his neck.

 

"Do you want me to fuck you, baby?" He asks. "Would you like me to put you on your hands and knees and tease you until you beg for me?" He continues, then applies just a bare hint of the strength Sherlock knows is hiding under those ridiculous jumpers, and frees himself from Sherlock's grasp.

 

"You're so gorgeous." John whispers reverently, as if he can't quite believe Sherlock is standing before him. Like he's afraid that if he speaks too loudly or roughly, Sherlock will disappear in a puff of cigarette and curry scented smoke.

 

John looks up at Sherlock, takes 7 very deliberate steps back that place him right in front of the door, and falls into an easy yet perfect parade rest.

 

"Sherlock Holmes you are beautiful, and fascinating, and _brutally_ intelligent, but not even you, with all your admittedly brilliant deductions can claim to know a man's entire past." John explains. The words are dark, and cloaked in the mystery that is the man John Watson was before he joined the army. 

 

Sherlock catches John's gaze and has to draw his bottom lip into his mouth and bite down to stifle a whimper at the wicked intent in those navy eyes.

 

"You have no idea the things I can do to you." John growls out. "I can make you crave me, make you _ache_ for me." He says, leaning forward ever so slightly with the fervency of his words.

 

Sherlock would like to tell him that he already craves and that he most certainly already aches, but that would require speaking which he is decidedly incapable of at the moment.

 

"Would you like that Sherlock? Would you like me to tug on those pretty curls, and mark that perfect skin with my mouth? Should I make you moan for me? Make you scream for me with nothing more than my hands?" He finishes.

 

"Yes. That. All of that." Sherlock rasps out, throat and mouth long gone dry with arousal.

 

"If you want this. If you _really_ want this, then you're going to have to show me Sherlock." 

 

"How?" Sherlock asks, and he's not even sure John can hear him he's so breathless. 

 

John glances down to the short expanse of floor between them.

 

"Crawl." 

 

Immediately Sherlock scoffs.

 

"I have never begged for anything. Exactly what about that would make you think I'd _crawl_ for any reason at all?" He sneers.

 

John's expression never changes.

 

"Because this time, it's the only way to get what you want." John answers. 

 

"Whatever you want Sherlock, _anything_ you want. But if what you want is submission, then you're going to have to crawl for me baby." He says softly. 

 

"Take all the time you need, it doesn't have to be tonight. Just know, that until you crawl or tell me no. Until you decide if you want vanilla, nothing at all, or something a bit" he pauses for a moment, bouncing his head on his neck as he searches for the right word. "More. Until you give me a definitive answer regarding exactly what it is you want from me... I'm not going to touch you." 

 

Sherlock slumps back against the wall behind him, and John turns on his heel and walks out the door, but just as he gets to the landing, he turns back slightly.

 

"Oh, and by the way. Until you come to a decision? Don't touch yourself."

 

Sherlock huffs out a weak laugh even as his eyes stretch as wide as saucers.

 

"You're mad. You can't command me." He says shakily.

 

"And yet, I just did."

 

Sherlock snorts.

 

"Honestly John, you and I both know you'd never be able to tell if I did or didn't either way."

 

John turns back to face Sherlock fully once again.

 

"No, but you will, and I'm willing to bet I'll have my way." John says with a smirk before turning back and making his way to the foot of the stairs.

 

"Goodnight Sherlock" he tosses casually over his shoulder, and starts up the stairs to his room, blue t shirt pulled tight across the broad planes of his shoulders and pyjama bottoms riding low on his hips.

 

Sherlock lets his head drop back against the wall behind him, shuts his eyes tight, takes a deep fortifying breath, and tries to think.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John's right hand slides up his back and into his hair, not yanking or pulling harshly, but tugging. The pressure steadily increasing until Sherlock gives up and let's his neck go limp and his head fall back._
> 
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> _"Arms behind your back please." John orders in a low voice._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, on Wednesday as promised. I hope you enjoy!

The second time John asks, its because Sherlock is _much_ too tempting in firelight.  
************

"Lo' love. how was your day?" John asks, smiling warmly as he comes through the door and hangs his coat and bag.

 

Immediately he walks over to Sherlock, who is peering into his microscope, and presses a soft kiss to the space just below his ear.

 

"I missed you today." He sighs, the warmth of his breath fanning out over Sherlock's neck.

 

Sherlock leans gently into the kiss and hums low in his throat. 

 

"Hello John." He turns and let's his eyes drag over the compact and powerful form that makes up one John Watson.

 

John leans down and brushes a soft kiss against those perfectly sinful lips, then stands and makes his way to the loo.

 

"Anything in? I'm starved." John calls as he washes his hands.

 

"Mmm. Mrs. Hudson brought scones." Sherlock answers, setting down his dropper and turning to face where John is coming from the bathroom, drying his hands on a paper towel.

 

"Scones? Yeah, sorry. I think I need something a bit more substantial. Let's go to Angelo's. It's been almost a month, I'm sure he's got to be missing you by now." John laughs.

 

Sherlock looks back at his microscope but there's nothing left to be done on his experiment other than wait for the next three hours at the very least.

 

"Angelo's it is." Sherlock agrees, then makes his way to his bedroom to get dressed.

 

"Sherlock! John! So wonderful to see you. Anything you like, as always, on the house!" Angelo declares. "What can I get you?!"

 

John nods gently toward Sherlock, who rolls his eyes, but folds his menu and passes it over. 

 

"I'll have the mushroom ravioli." He orders, then flicks his eyes over to John and looks back up at Angelo with a slight smirk.

 

"John will have the spaghetti carbonara, and we'll each have a glass of your best white wine." He finishes and John inclines his head with an fondly awed expression.

 

Angelo jots it all down but before he walks away John stops him.

 

"Oh and Angelo, could you bring a candle for the table? Much more romantic that way." He asks, a bright smile on his face and Angelo beams back down at him before scurrying off to place their order and fetch a candle.

 

"Romantic John? You're getting soft." Sherlock tries to snark, but it falls flat when John looks up and sees the faint blush creeping slowly up his neck. 

 

Angelo returns and places a lit candle on the table between them.

 

"Maybe I just couldn't pass up a chance to watch your face in candlelight. I don't think you understand just how truly _beautiful_ you are Sherlock." He replies in a soft tone, eyes taking in the soft pink splotches high on the sharp cut of Sherlock's cheekbones.

 

"In all the time I've known you I don't think I've ever seen you blush. You're adorable." John says with a smile that spreads wider as Sherlock's flush deepens.

 

"Does the 'World's only consulting detective' have a soft spot for compliments?" John asks quietly, not really expecting and answer and ending up quite a bit stunned when Sherlock nods his head shyly. 

 

John beams at him from across the table for his honesty.

 

"That's good love. I can work with that." He adds with a wink.

 

The waiter sets down their plates and continues on his way.

 

"Eat your dinner Sherlock, there's a gorgeous brunet meeting me at the flat and I can't _wait_ to get back."

 

Sherlock's head snaps up and his eyes flash with cold fury for just a moment before he catches John's teasing gaze. Midnight blue eyes glimmering in the candlelight, and a small smile on his lips.

 

"Oh." Sherlock breathes out, making the connection.

 

John raises his eyebrows and grins, counting it as a win that he could manage to fluster Sherlock enough that he would miss anything at all.

 

"Eat." John rumbles out low and smooth pointing his fork in the direction of Sherlock's plate. 

 

He manages to stifle his smile when Sherlock obediently nibbles at the corner of a ravioli.

 

"Good boy." John purrs, so low it's almost silent.

 

He knows Sherlock heard him because a soft gasp reaches his ears from across the table. He looks up to see Sherlock's startled eyes on his, his heart is beating so fast John can see his pulse pounding at his throat.

 

Sherlock picks up his wine glass and takes a sip, stalling for time to come up with any sort of response other than the ragged moan he only barely keeps from spilling out of him. 

 

"Finish eating love." John says with a roguish smile before Sherlock is able to shake off the shock. "I'm suddenly ravenous for something much more decadent than anything Angelo has on offer." He finishes, eyes dropping to Sherlock's barely parted lips.

 

Sherlock drops his head to hide his burning cheeks. "You should try the tiramisu if its decadence you're after." he quips, but he eats his food without a fuss for what must be the first time since they met.

 

The walk back to Baker Street is an exercise in sexual frustration. 

 

John's fingers keep brushing against Sherlock and there's is nothing inadvertent about it. They ghost across the smooth skin of his wrist, and drag against his palm leaving sparks of electricity buzzing just underneath his skin. 

 

When they finally reach the door Sherlock has to breathe deep and force himself not to pant with exertion even though all he's done is take a five minute walk.

 

He steps inside and climbs the stairs trying to figure out how he missed that John Watson is a bloody menace. 

 

The both of them hang their coats, then John sits on the sofa and watches Sherlock as he peers through the ocular lens of his microscope, knowing that it's only been about an hour and a half and nothing much will have changed.

 

Sherlock straightens up and walks over to the bookcase, sliding one long delicate finger over the tomes, before deciding he's not much in a reading mood. He pulls his phone from his pocket and scrolls through his email for a few moments before he tosses the phone into his chair with an annoyed sigh.

 

"Sherlock." John's voice calls out softly and Sherlock only just manages not to jump. "You're all wound up baby, come here for a moment please." He asks, and Sherlock let's out a relieved breath before flopping down on his side on the sofa and burying his face in the thick, skin warm wool of John's jumper.

 

John let's out a startled laugh. "Not quite what I meant, but I'll take it." He says with a chuckle before dragging one hand through Sherlock's hair and quietly relishing the soft shiver that chases its way down how spine at the touch. 

 

They stay like that for a moment. John carding competent fingers through Sherlock's curls, and Sherlock allowing himself to be comforted, the nerves dissipating as if John were pulling them out through his scalp.

 

After a while Sherlock pulls back slightly. Not enough to dislodge John's hand in his hair. Just enough that he can be heard clearly.

 

"John?" He asks.

 

"Yes love?" John replies.

 

"Thank you." Sherlock breathes.

 

"Of course." John murmurs, stroking his thumb over Sherlock's brow. 

 

"Anything you need, whenever you need it." John goes on, leaning down to press a kiss to Sherlock's mussed hair.

 

Sherlock sits up and turns to John with a smirk. 

 

"I'm going to go brush my teeth and I'm hoping you'll join me because I desperately want to kiss you, but unfortunately your breath reeks of garlic." Sherlock sighs dramatically and takes off for the loo with John following behind him laughing.

 

"Your breath isn't all that much better you lanky git!" He counters waggishly as Sherlock gets the water running.

 

"Which is precisely _why_ I suggested cleaning our teeth John. Do keep up." He snarks with a smile.

 

They brush their teeth and don't even make it out of the bathroom before they're kissing playfully, biting softly at each others lips and grinning into one another's mouths.

 

Sherlock pulls away to breathe, then leans back down to take slow sipping kisses from John's mouth while he pulls him toward the sofa. 

He pushes him down onto it and straddles John's lap then licks deeply into his mouth.

 

John's right hand slides up his back and into his hair, not yanking or pulling harshly, but tugging. The pressure steadily increasing until Sherlock gives up and let's his neck go limp and his head fall back.

 

"Arms behind your back please." John orders in a low voice.

 

Sherlock is powerless to do anything but obey and soon John has both of Sherlock's fine boned wrists gathered and trapped in his left hand and is leaning up to nip at the corner of his jaw.

 

"Is this what you wanted baby?" John murmurs against Sherlock's neck.

 

"Is this what you thought of, lying in your bed at night, cradled in those ridiculous sheets?" He continues, the hand in Sherlock's hair releasing its grip and gliding down the smooth skin of his throat before sliding down his chest where John flicks his thumb nail over the hard peak of Sherlock's nipple through his shirt.

 

Sherlock moans long and low and tips forward, burying his face in John's neck to muffle the sound.

 

John grins devilishly even though he knows Sherlock can't see him and maneuvers his free hand into the small space between them. He pulls Sherlock's shirttails from his trousers then wriggles his hand under the shirt and skates a warm palm across the soft skin of Sherlock's belly.

 

"Did you stuff your fingers inside yourself and fist your cock until you came moaning my name?" John whispers and then nips at the point of Sherlock's collarbone prompting him to rock down into John's lap, off balance and panting, just a few moments from coming his pants like an overeager teen. 

 

John pulls down on Sherlock's wrists, dragging him away from his body and Sherlock whimpers, struggling to lean back into the warmth of him, arousal burning low and hot in his belly.

 

John holds him fast, refuses to allow that lithe body to blanket his again because even John's self control has its limits.

 

John clucks his tongue.

 

"Tsk tsk Sherlock, none of that. We made a deal." He reminds him airily.

 

Sherlock makes a frustrated noise and gazes down at John with heated, lustful eyes. His hair is a wild mess from John's hands, and his lips are wet and bright pink from bruising kisses. 

 

He's _gorgeous_.

 

Sherlock pulls at the scattered bits of himself and forces his mind to focus. He slips from John's lap onto the sofa and bites softly at his lower lip.

 

John stands and presses a kiss to Sherlock's head.

 

"John I-"

 

"No worries love, it's alright. You're not going to crawl for me tonight and that's _fine_." He stresses. 

 

"Either way I came out of this with some _very_ valuable information." John says, peering down at Sherlock through slitted eyes, the bulge at the front of his trousers all too apparent.

 

"What might that be?" Sherlock asks curiosity and dubiety warring for prominence in his face. 

 

"Well for one I learned just how sensitive your nipples are." John growls.

 

"I learned exactly how hard I have to pull your hair to make you go all soft and pliant." The words pour out of him, spilling from his lips and blanketing Sherlock's skin, leaving him tingling.

 

"I learned, that despite any misgivings you may or may not have. You fully intend to crawl of me one day soon." John continues, leaning down and brushing his lips against Sherlock's temple. Smiling when Sherlock pulls back and gapes up at him.

 

"Oh yes. Want to know how I know?" John queries, running a fingertip over the plush curve of those lips.

 

Sherlock nods, unable to find his voice.

 

"Since I've known you, you have not _once_ done a single thing you didn't want to do. Not ever. If you didn't _want_ to crawl, you'd have told me no that first night and moved on. The fact that you've left me without an answer means you know what the answer is... You're just not ready to give it." He cups Sherlock's face in his hands and presses tender kisses to his mouth. 

 

"You're not ready yet, and that's alright, because I can see how much you _want_ it. You want it more than anything don't you? I can see it, scrawled naked and unadulterated across your face every time I touch you. There are so many _wonderful_ things I can do with that want Sherlock" 

 

John stands straight and tugs his jumper down a bit. Bastard never took off a single item of clothing and he's got Sherlock looking like he just left the back of a car on prom night.

 

"I'm off to bed love. I'm going to go have a long drawn out wank to the thought of you down here, rock hard and _needing_ to come. Holding back only because I said so." He finishes 

 

He leans down and kisses Sherlock one last time. It's hungry and possessive and Sherlock's world is spinning and he can't remember which way is up. 

 

John pulls away with a wet smack.

 

"Night love." He finishes and then he turns and leaves the room, padding softly up the stairs.

 

As soon as he's off the stairs Sherlock races for the loo, intent upon turning the shower on as hot as he can stand it, and wanking furiously until he comes down the drain with John none the wiser.

 

Except once he's in the shower he can't do it. He digs his fingernails into his thighs and he can almost _hear_ John whispering "good boy" against his skin, praising him for his restraint.

 

"Fuck." Sherlock spits, reaching out for the knob to turn the water cold.

 

Fine, if he can't do it himself, he'll just get John to do it for him. It won't be the first and will very likely not be the last time he'll have to manipulate John into something.

 

He steps from his cold shower and wraps a towel around his waist, then opens the bathroom door only to find John leaning against the opposite wall.

 

John shoulders himself away from the wall and presses a hand to Sherlock's chest, taking in the lack of steam and the cool temperature of his skin.

 

"Yeah. Yeah I thought so." John purrs in his ear, and with a smirk he's gone, back up the stairs before he ends everything right up against the wall outside the loo.

 

Sherlock on the other hand stomps into his room and slams his door, then flops facedown on his bed and starts plotting ways to get John inside of him.

 

A little less than an hour later he flips on his back and smiles up at the ceiling. 

 

Two can play at John Watson's game and Sherlock has a _plan_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we are. I hope you guys liked it! I cannot thank everyone enough for the comments and kudos. You're all wonderful!


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Eyes on me." John snaps, and Sherlock jerks his head up only to be pinned in place by John's wolfish grin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Wednesday everyone! Enjoy the chapter!

The third time most emphatically does _not_ go the way Sherlock expects.

************

Sherlock waits a full week to put his plan into action because as impatient as he is he needs a very specific sort of case to pull it off.

He's scrolling through his email when something catches his eye. A young man's lover has just left him and the broken-hearted ex is _sure_ that said boyfriend has been stealing things from his home and hiding them away in one of the units at the storage yard where they both work. He's got no proof and wishes to leave the task of gathering the necessary evidence to Sherlock, so that he can take the matter to the police.

Sherlock solves it without ever getting up from John's laptop, but still he sends a reply taking the case for Mr. Wallace Kincaide, and assures him that he will do his utmost to find his great-grandmother's diamonds and priceless family heirlooms.

"Tomorrow." Sherlock thinks out loud. Tomorrow he will put his plan into action and tomorrow night he will reap the benefits.

\-----------------

"Kincaide's ex-boyfriend is inside now, working his shift." Sherlock explains to John as they step from the cab.  
  
"Stay here." Sherlock intones. "He'll be more receptive if only one of us goes inside and I need to see his face when he answers my questions." He continues.  
  
John nods.  
  
"I'll get the key and be right out. Then we'll check the unit and we'll leave. Simple, yes, but very lucrative and I rather thought we could do with the extra money. Maybe take a small holiday or something to that effect." Sherlock finishes.  
  
John eyebrows shoot up into his hair and then come down into a bit of a frown.  
  
"Alright." John responds, expression clearing.  
  
"Go on then." He presses. "I could use a few days off." He says with a smile as he watches Sherlock disappear into the establishment, and then reappear in the window on the other side of the clerks desk.  
  
Five minutes later, John is no longer smiling.  
  
He is seething with anger hot enough to vaporize entire oceans. He can practically _feel_ the fire licking angry and blistering over his skin. John takes a deep breath and reigns himself in, glaring daggers through the window as Sherlock leans forward and casually lays a hand on the kid's (and he _is_ a kid, can't be a day over 23) forearm.  
  
The kid blushes and John almost feels sorry for him. Pitted against a charming Sherlock he never stood half a chance.  
  
John screws on his best "Yes, hello I'm just your average everyday pleasant faced man in a jumper" smile and waits for Sherlock to return, keeping himself in place by sheer force of will.  
  
' _Just get back to the flat_ ' he chants in his head when Sherlock rounds the desk and cups the blokes elbow, smiling down at him while the boy's face burns an even brighter red.  
  
John sees Sherlock slip the necessary key from the desk and into his pocket, then watches him make his excuses and slip from the door where the persona drops completely.  
  
Sherlock holds up the key and John doesn't say a word, he simply turns and walks calmly in the direction of the number on the card attached to it.  
  
He even pretends not to see Sherlock's knowing smirk.  
  
Sherlock's long legs eat up the ground and he gets there first, unlocking the door and swinging it open to reveal a storage locker full of jewelry and golden candlesticks, porcelain miniatures and in the corner there's even a hand carved bust of Julius Caesar.  
  
"Not the first time he's done this then." John mumbles mostly to himself.   
  
"Not as such no." Sherlock answers even though the question was very clearly rhetorical. "There's a reason he was so overly interested in me." Sherlock finishes and John's eyes flare up just long enough for Sherlock to see the dark intent in them before he pulls his 'mild mannered physician' mask firmly back down.  
  
"Finish your work Sherlock." John says almost sweetly. "I'm going to go get a cab, so don't be too long." He finishes in that perfectly pleasant tone that is starting to crawl up Sherlock's spine.  
  
Just get back to the flat.  
  
Just get back to the flat.  
  
_Just get back to the flat._  
  
During the cab ride home John never says a word. He simply stares placidly out at the city, expression never changing nor faltering.  
  
Sherlock knows because he watches John's reflection from his own window the entire ride.  
  
The cab stops in front of 221 and Sherlock tosses a note over the bench and slides gracefully from the car. He wants to get into the flat so he can hole up in his room and _think_.  
  
He was prepared for a jealous, angry John. Jealous, angry John makes rash decisions and would have thrown Sherlock on the nearest flat surface and had him if only to solidify his claim. Jealous, angry John is extremely malleable, all it takes is the right push.  
  
Sherlock has no idea what to do with the quietly furious man trailing him into the flat. The heated frustration rolling off John is so palpable Sherlock can scarcely _breathe_.  
  
He pulls off his coat and scarf and carefully hangs them both before turning for his room.  
  
"Sherlock." John calls his name softly.  
  
Sherlock stops in his tracks, then turns slowly to face John.  
  
"Could you come here please?" He asks a little too kindly.  
  
Sherlock doesn't trust it.  
  
John grabs one of the dining chairs and sets it in the middle of the sitting room floor.  
  
"Sit down, please." He commands. Because despite his choice of words, there is no question in his tone.  
  
Sherlock makes his way to the chair, but then turns to John.  
  
"John, I shou-"  
  
"SIT. Down." John growls out, cutting him off.  
  
Stunned into silence Sherlock can't do anything but fall into the chair and attempt to settle.  
  
"Thank you." John offers in that same agreeable tone.  
  
"Now, _you_ are going to stay your gorgeous arse right there in that chair. I'm not going to bind you, tie you, or anything else of the sort. You're going to sit there and watch. You're going to burn inside and you're going to keep your eyes on me and hold yourself in place with nothing but the force of your own will. Just like I had to do while I watched you paw all over that spotty kid back at the storage yard." The words pour out of John rumbling and smooth like honey coated gravel, and Sherlock is instantly turned on.  
  
"And if I don't?" He asks.  
  
John looks Sherlock dead in his eyes.  
  
"Try me and find out." John says quietly.  
  
In a normal situation Sherlock would stand up and walk away, if only to see what the consequence would be. His pride and curiosity would demand it of him, but this? This is something else entirely.  
  
This is _John_.  
  
So Sherlock grips the arm rests tight in his long agile fingers, raises his head haughtily, and stares back at John.  
  
John takes a few steps back and leans against the wall, making sure Sherlock can see all of him, then he reaches down and tugs his jumper up over his head.  
  
Sherlock almost chokes on his own saliva.  
  
John just smirks down at him, then pulls the Sig out from where it's tucked at the small of his back.  
  
Sherlock sees it and his pupils dilate, his breathing kicks up just a tiny bit, and his pulse hammers in his throat.  
  
"Yes, yes I know. You like the gun. Simmer down Sherlock, that's something you'll have to _earn_ if you want it." He says with a low chuckle, lying the weapon on the coffee table and taking special care to make sure it's pointing away from the wayward detective.  
  
John reaches up and begins working at his buttons, hips canted out to tug his shirttails free. He quickly undoes the buttons at his cuffs, and let's the checked shirt fall to the floor.  
  
And there he is, in his vest and jeans. All golden skin and army muscle and Sherlock is having a hard time paying attention to anything but the breadth of those shoulders and the thick ropey strength of those arms.  
  
Sherlock runs his tongue over his mouth and nibbles at the skin of his bottom lip. He thinks he know where John is going with this, and he's not sure that even the world's only consulting detective has _that_ much willpower.  
  
Not where John Watson is concerned.  
  
He drops his eyes to the floor to tries and gather his wits about him, taking deep soothing breaths until...  
  
"Eyes on me." John snaps, and Sherlock jerks his head up only to be pinned in place by John's wolfish grin.  
  
"It can't be getting to be too much already love, we've only just gotten started." He thumbs open the tab of his jeans and let's them sag open to show off the white band on candy red pants.  
  
Sherlock sucks in a breath, and marvels. ' _Finally_ ' he wants to breathe out. He wants to smirk that John doesn't know. Doesn't understand that he will gladly take his first sight of John, hard and ready for _him_ , as a successful result of his careful planning.  
  
John reaches into his pants to pull himself out, but just before he does, he pulls down on the fabric of his vest with his free hand, completely obscuring himself from Sherlock's vision.  
  
Sherlock let's out a strangled and disappointed moan, and John's grin goes wide and dark.  
  
"You didn't really think I'd give you that, did you? After the way you behaved today? No no baby, you have to be _good_ the get the things you want." John looks down at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow and his hand stroking slowly across the head of his cock over and over, still completely under the cover of his undershirt.  
  
"Can you do that baby? Can you be good? I want to give you _so_ much Sherlock but I need you to be good for me." He gasps out as he stokes up and down the length of his cock.  
  
Sherlock's face flames red but he doesn't dare drop his eyes. If for any reason that bloody fucking vest stops hiding from him everything that he wants, Sherlock will be there to see it.  
  
He watches John's knuckles brush against the inside of the garment and he can almost _feel_ that soft touch on his skin. He's had John's hands on him and he _knows_ how good it feels and he wants so badly he could almost burn that damned shirt away with nothing more than the heat of his gaze.  
  
"And the look on your face is exactly how I felt watching you touch him." John says in a low tone.  
  
"Never again." He growls.  
  
"Never." Sherlock pants. He grips the arms of the chair even more tightly, his nails digging into his palms around the slim curve of wood. Clinging to his sanity by the very tips of his fingers.  
  
"I'm not going to ask you to crawl for me tonight because I suspect you would just to stop me being angry with you, and I don't want you that way Sherlock. When you come to me, I want every synapse of that beautiful brain of yours firing and focused completely and only on that fact that you're giving yourself to me." John purrs, then leans his golden head against the wall and strokes himself through a gorgeous orgasm to the sound of Sherlock's lustful groan.  
  
And Sherlock bloody misses it.  
  
John pulls his hand from his pants, grimacing slightly at the wet mess on his belly. He looks up at Sherlock to see those blazing eyes zeroed in on his hand.  
  
John smirks. "Do you want it, baby?" He taunts, holding his hand slightly forward.  
  
Sherlock nods and John shakes his head.  
  
"Use words Sherlock."  
  
"Yes." Sherlock grates out, mouth and throat dry with desire.  
  
"Good baby. You were so good, you never moved an inch." John praises as he steps forward and drags his come covered thumb over Sherlock's lips, then pushes it into his mouth to swipe it across his tongue and Sherlock _moans_. He doesn't mean to but he can't help himself because it's _John_. It tastes of John and it's _perfect_.  
  
John runs his clean hand through Sherlock's hair and makes his way to the loo, washing his hands, tossing his pants and vest into the laundry, and scrubbing off the worst of the mess with a warm flannel.  
  
On his way back he stops at the sink and grabs a glass of water only to return to the sitting room to find Sherlock still sat in the dining chair, clinging to it with stiff fingers.  
  
John sets the water glass on the coffee table and settles on his knees before Sherlock where he slowly unfolds Sherlock's hands from the chair, then presses soft kisses to the half moon nail marks on his palms, and his aching knuckles.  
  
He grabs the water glass and puts it to Sherlock's lips, and Sherlock drinks without a fuss more thirsty than he had realized.  
  
"It wasn't much as far as play is concerned, but I can imagine you're feeling a bit off anyway. So come on you, off to bed. You don't need to be alone and I suspect if I leave you down here I'll wake up to you in a strop, which, just, no thanks." John says with a gentle smile.  
  
Sherlock returns it shyly as he is reminded of all the reasons why he loves John Watson.  
  
John shuffles Sherlock into his bedroom and pulls back the blankets. Sherlock strips and climbs in, lying on his side facing John. Waiting until he's settled in beside him to begin.  
  
"I _am_ sorry John." Sherlock says softly.  
  
John presses a light kiss to his lips. "I know baby, it's all fine. Just... don't do it again okay?" He asks.  
  
"Alright." Sherlock answers, and he's never meant anything more than he means that single word.  
  
"Good, now to sleep with you." John says with a tired chuckle.  
  
And Sherlock never even thinks of his own erection, he just buries his face into John's chest and sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are the absolute best. I LOVE hearing from you, and I LOVE how much you guys are liking my little fic. I never expected to get much of any response so thank you all so much!


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Dr. Watson, to what do I owe the pleasure." John hears Mycroft ask him from the other end of the line._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _"If I were to shoot a man for hurting Sherlock Holmes, just how well would that go over with the British Government?" John asks in a low voice, burning eyes boring into Sheaver's terrified ones._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Wednesday everyone! Feels crept in this chapter! I have absolutely no idea how those got there! 
> 
> Please heed the tags guys, I update them every week and over tag just to be safe. I don't feel like anything very bad happens here, but still I implore you, be careful. You know your triggers better than I do. If you want to know exactly what's going to happen so you can read without fear please let me know and I'll either message you on Tumblr or send you an email!
> 
> Alright, now on to the chapter.

On what John plans to be the night of the fourth time he asks, everything goes horribly awry and he never even considers it.

 

*************

 

"Sherlock why are we here?" John shouts over thumping bass as he looks around at the sweaty writhing mass of bodies in the club. 

 

"A case John, obviously." Sherlock says, leaning down to be heard over the din of the crowd.

 

"Yes, clearly for a case Sherlock, but why are we _here_? And why are you dressed like that?" He asks, gesturing at Sherlock's outfit. Skinny jeans, an extremely well fitted jade green henley with the buttons at the neck undone, and of course, his bloody coat.

 

"I'm blending John, why else would I wear these preposterous clothes?" He asks with a sniff.

 

"The suspect, Timothy Sheaver, is very deeply involved with human trafficking John. He snatches children from the streets and they're never seen or heard from again. As it stands he probably has more than 30 children he's ready to ship off to who knows where. We have to catch him tonight. By the morning, he'll be gone, and the children along with him."

 

John swipes a hand over his face with a murmured "Fuck." 

 

"Ok then, so why here? We're not very likely to find any kids here." He asks, trying to put things together.

 

"Here's where he'll meet his partner to get the number for the container he'll load the kids in tomorrow afternoon." Sherlock answers.

 

John nods and looks out into the crowd for any suspicious activity, but turns back when Sherlock taps his forearm lightly and jerks his chin toward the corner of the club.

 

There, near the back exit John sees a man slip a scrap of paper into the hands of another, shorter man. Sheaver.

 

John doesn't like the look of the him at all. He's got an evil look about him that John's seen enough times on the battlefield that he's able to pick it out now with ease. The type to like watching others suffer, this one is. The type to not only smile, but well and truly get off on your agony.

 

John wonders what else he was expecting from a man that runs a trafficking ring.

 

"Sherlock I don't like the look of him, we should call Lestr-" John cuts himself off when he looks over and Sherlock isn't there. His eyes dart about the club searching for that telltale shock of perfect mahogany curls atop pale skin and piercing eyes. He finds it just as he watches Sherlock slip out of the club behind Sheaver. 

 

"Bloody fucking Christ Sherlock." John growls out as he plows into the crowd, taking the shortest route to door. 

 

"I'm going to kill him." John mutters to himself as he finally makes it out of the throng of people, and to the door. He takes a deep breath and slips silently through the door.

 

"Well you're a pretty one aren't you?" Says a nasally, slimy voice.

 

"Step aside." John hears Sherlock command and he moves quickly, turning left into the alley to find him.

 

"I don't think I will. I think I'll have a bit of you actually." John hears in that disgusting voice, and he breaks into a dead run, eyes searching frantically for Sherlock. 

 

He finds him pressed against the dirty alleyway wall, on the other side of a skip, with a knife to his throat and the short evil prick from the club cupping Sherlock's arse in his free hand, licking at the pale skin visible at Sherlock's neck where his collar plunges into a large vee. 

 

Sherlock sees John cut across to them, but the perp is so engrossed he doesn't notice John until it's too late and the barrel of the Sig is already pressed to his temple. 

 

He slimy little fucker freezes when he feels the cold steel of the gun against his skin.

 

"Step away. Slowly." John says calmly, veins cold with the icy fury his heart is pumping through him.

 

Sherlock steps forward and John can see the cut on his upper arm, from a knife sharp enough to cut through his coat and shirt and still cut his skin. He sees the trickle of blood on Sherlock's neck where the knife pricked him as he was assaulted and the still slick sheen of saliva on his sternum-

 

John's eyes go flat black, and the sound of him thumbing down the hammer rings out in the darkness.

 

"John. Don't." Sherlock's voice calls out hoarsely.

 

John's eyes flick over to him, and Sherlock surveys him with cool eyes. His face twisted in disgust at having to defend his attacker. 

 

"John, as much as I would love to watch him die, if you kill him, you will most certainly go to prison and not even I will be able to stop it." He says softly, fighting John's desire for revenge with crystalline logic.

 

Or so he thought.

 

John uses his free hand to reach into his pocket and pull out his phone.

 

Sherlock let's out a sigh of relief, assuming that John is calling Lestrade.

 

John is not calling Lestrade.

 

"Dr. Watson, to what do I owe the pleasure." John hears Mycroft ask him from the other end of the line.

 

"If I were to shoot a man for hurting Sherlock Holmes, just how well would that go over with the British Government?" John asks in a low voice, burning eyes boring into Sheaver's terrified ones.

 

"That would depend, was he merely hurt or did the perpetrator demonstrate some form of malicious intent?" Mycroft responds, very clearly trying to gauge what is going on and why he's being phoned by John at half 2 on a Friday morning.

 

"The crimes committed were of a... desirous nature." John grits out.

 

The line goes silent for a long moment. 

 

"Sherlock Holmes is our best and most highly sought after consultant on an innumerous amount of very high level quandaries." Mycroft says, voice completely at ease. If John didn't know what he was talking about he might think he was ordering food or chatting about the weather.

 

"Any measures taken in regards to his personal safety would most assuredly be met with only the highest praise and, of course, whatever aid might be deemed necessary by the individual taking said measures." He finishes placidly.

 

John looks to Sherlock who's eyes are wide and tired and the need to get him _out of here_ wars with the need to stop Sheaver breathing the same air as Sherlock Holmes.

 

Mycroft cuts off John's internal struggle.

 

"Don't kill him John. Incapacitate him, and leave the rest to the British Government." Mycroft says in a low voice, and John can hear the sound of a car purring gently to life.

 

"Right." John answers. Do you need a location?" He asks.

 

"No." Mycroft answers, and the line goes dead.

 

"Well, it looks like I don't get to kill you." John says, bringing his arm down.

 

Sheaver smiles a huge, ugly grin revealing rotten grey and yellow teeth and John grimaces in revulsion.

 

He steps forward and brings the butt of the gun down on Sheaver's temple, looking down grimly as the man crumbles to the ground.

 

John reaches out to grab Sherlock's hand, then jerks it back unsure of how Sherlock will react to touch right now.

 

Sherlock sees, of course he does. He takes John's hand in his and immediately John interlocks their fingers and tugs then out of the alley and onto the main road to hail a cab back to Baker Street.

 

When they get home Sherlock turns directly for his room but before he takes a single step John grips his wrist and leads him gently, but intently to the bathroom. 

 

He strips Sherlock to his waist and pulls out his medical kit. He takes a good look at the cut on Sherlock's arm and gently disinfects it, before deeming stitches necessary.

 

He snaps off a suture packet and looks up Sherlock for permission. 

 

After Sherlock's nod of assent he bends his head and gets started, leaving 5 neat stitches in the pale skin of Sherlock's bicep.

 

"Come on then, into the shower with you." He says, turning on the water and nudging Sherlock in after Sherlock divests himself of the last bits of his clothing. 

 

John puts the entire outfit, minus the coat, directly into the bins while Sherlock showers.

 

John makes tea and toast and hopes he'll be able to coax even a single bite into Sherlock. Fluids, sugar, and carbohydrates. Things Sherlock sorely needs right now, but will be loathe to accept.

 

Sherlock comes out of the loo wrapped in his red dressing gown, and again, he turns for his room.

 

"Tea Sherlock. And toast." John call out and Sherlock grumbles back at him.

 

"Not hungry." John barely makes out and jogs off to catch him. 

 

"Just the tea then... Please?" He asks timidly. Sherlock looks down at him, then then stalks over to flop tiredly into the chair, and take a sip of tea. 

 

Sherlock drinks the entire mug of tea. He even takes a few bites of toast, then clears his throat.

 

"John?" He asks pensively 

 

"Yes?" John turn and looks at him curiously, expression soft and indulgent. Usually Sherlock would hate anyone looking at him that way, it's too close to pity. But right now he'll grasp at anything he can. 

 

"Could you. That's is, would you come. With me? To bed?" He asks.

 

"To sleep." He adds hurriedly and John stands and shucks his jumper and shirt, leaving his vest in place and takes Sherlock's hand.

 

"Come on, let's get you in bed." He says with a soft dry press of his lips to Sherlock's jaw. 

 

They make their way to Sherlock's room and climb into bed. 

 

Sherlock lies on his back, stiff as a board and as far away from John and the bed will allow. Until John reaches for him, and locks their pinky fingers.

 

"Are you alright love?" He asks quietly, and Sherlock scrambles across the bed and buries his face in John neck.

 

John understands. John always understands. He doesn't say a word, he just wraps his arms around Sherlock and holds him as he trembles. 

 

\--------------------

 

The next morning John wakes first, which is a bit of a miracle in and of itself. He presses a soft kiss to that mop of brown curls, then disentangles himself from Sherlock and makes his way to the loo for his morning pee and to make his mouth taste less like something that crawled out of one of Sherlock's experiments.

 

In the sitting room after, he sends a couple of quick texts to Sarah explaining that he won't be in that day, then pads into the kitchen and sets the kettle to boil.

 

He wants to go back and cuddle up next to Sherlock. He wants to hold him and kiss him and promise him that he'll never let anyone hurt him ever again. He wants to, but John knows Sherlock. 

 

He knows that in the bright light of day Sherlock will find himself unable to accept anything even vaguely resembles pity.

 

So instead, John will offer him normalcy. He will make breakfast and tea. When Sherlock comes out John will nag at him to to eat and drink and then he'll sit on the sofa and pretend to read while Sherlock sits engrossed in something at his microscope or his computer. He'll spend all day watching Sherlock watch him pretend not to be watching Sherlock. 

 

And if the time ever comes where Sherlock wants or needs to talk about it? Well, John will be there for that too. 

 

Just as John sets his tea on the table and is about to sit to eat Sherlock comes out in his blue dressing gown, hair delightfully mussed from sleep.

 

"Breakfast Sherlock." John says, and bulldozes right past any complaints Sherlock is about to make.

 

"Breakfast Sherlock. Beans on toast and tea. You've not had more than a few bites of toast in the last 3 days. Sit down and eat please." He pushes and Sherlock sits with a put upon and nibbles at his food.

 

When they finish John puts the dishes in the sink, sits on the sofa, and opens his book. He leans back and settles in for his day of Sherlock watching.

 

Well, that's what he was prepared for, but a scant few minutes later Sherlock throws himself on the sofa with John and pushes his face into the fabric of John's t shirt.

 

John isn't even the slightest bit upset that this seems to be becoming a habitual position of theirs.

 

He drops his free hand to Sherlock's hair and cards his fingers through those perfectly unkempt curls.

 

"John?" Sherlock mumbles into John's belly.

 

"Yes love?" He asks, looking down to see Sherlock peeking back up at him.

 

"Thank you." Sherlock whispers.

 

"Always Sherlock." John responds softly.

 

John goes back to his novel and the next time he looks down he finds Sherlock fast asleep in his lap.

 

John smiles, pulls the throw from the back of the couch, and drapes it across Sherlock's thin body.

 

He's been meaning to finish this book anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so we didn't leave the boys in the best place. I know, I'm sorry. I don't like it either.
> 
> I could probably be talked into posting the next chapter a bit early to ease the pain...
> 
> Just, putting that out there.


	5. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"John, do we actually have to go?" Sherlock whines from his chair while John tackles the washing up._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! I know this is later than usual but I had to work today! I'm actually off to bed as soon as I get this up. So, enough of my chatter, enjoy!

The fifth time John asks, Sherlock almost can't stop himself.

*************

"John, do we actually _have_ to go?" Sherlock whines from his chair while John tackles the washing up.

 

"Yes Sherlock, we do. Your brother is throwing a party. A black tie affair, in _your_ honor. You are the guest of honor. Yes you absolutely must be there." John responds as he dries his hands on a tea towel.

 

"Besides, when I get there, after my shift at the surgery, I have a surprise for you." He finishes impishly.

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes and takes John in quickly.

 

"What sort of surprise could you have for me John Watson?" Sherlock asks with a smile, seemingly charmed that John would even try and surprise him.

 

"You know I'll figure it out John." Sherlock says with the bright glitter of challenge in his eyes.

 

"I know you'll _try_ , love." John retorts with a smirk. 

 

Sherlock snorts and drops his head on his knees staring down at the floor until he sees John's toes, bare and just peeking out from under his pyjama bottoms at the edge of his chair.

 

Sherlock let's his feet slip off the seat and looks up into John's eyes.

 

"Hello there you." John says with a soft smile.

 

"No." Sherlock shakes his head, curls bouncing with the motion, and John grins.

 

"No John Watson. That is absolutely not _fair_." Sherlock whines, but the smile on his face belies his words.

 

"I haven't done a thing." John defends himself "Besides, I never claimed to be a fair man. You assumed that all on your own." He says even as he sinks his fingers deep into Sherlock's hair to scratch gently at his scalp.

 

Sherlock closes his eyes and let's his head fall back, reveling in John's careful touch.

 

"Be on time baby." He orders softly, and Sherlock feels the words settle against his skin and he knows that he will be, however much he would prefer to annoy Mycroft with his tardiness. 

 

John is making him soft.

 

John leans down to kiss him long and slow and deep and Sherlock finds he's having a hard time caring about how soft he may or may not be getting. 

 

"Alright. On time and appropriately dressed. Fine." He breathes against John's lips and John smiles into the kiss before pulling away and grabbing his coat.

 

"Good, because I'm looking forward to giving you your surprise later. I'll see you soon." And with a quick wink he's out the door and up to stairs to get dressed for work.

 

Sherlock looks at the clock and sighs.

 

"T minus six hours until I have to prepare for my big birthday celebration." He thinks aloud with a groan.

 

\----------------

 

The black town car stops in front of 221B and Sherlock steps outside and slips gracefully inside. 

 

"Hello brother." Mycroft says placidly.

 

"Mycroft." Sherlock replies, nodding his greeting.

 

"Thirty four children all untouched and in relatively good health have been found and returned home to their families. A few of them were a bit battered, they apparently, decided against going quietly. However, no wounds were serious, and they will all be fine. All of the parents and family members send their warmest regards" Sherlock nods once and peers out of the window, watching London roll by. 

 

"Mr. Sheaver and his accomplice are currently being detained and will soon be prosecuted and imprisoned."

 

"Prosecuted? So they can get out in 6 years and start it all anew?" Sherlock asks indignantly.

 

"I said that they would be prosecuted and imprisoned Sherlock. I never said they would remain in prison. Prisons are extremely volatile environments. What with all those different personalities and perversions being housed under one roof. Violent altercations between inmates are a rather unfortunate yet unavoidable reality of prison life." Mycroft intones peering down at his phone for a moment before replacing it in the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket.

 

"Ah. Well, these things do to tend to happen." Sherlock replies, and that's that. Business taken care of.

 

The car stops before Mycroft's grand estate, and the brothers enter the residence to the sounds of a party going on around them.

 

Upon arrival to the ballroom, Sherlock is about to make his way to the bar for a drink when his eyes fall on Victor Trevor. His very first lover, and a monstrous arsehole.

 

"Why is he here?" Sherlock almost snarls, just barely keeping his carefully polite tone intact.

 

"Who Victor?" Mycroft asks with a smirk.

 

Sherlock gives a terse nod.

 

"Mmm. I merely thought it would serve him well to see you on the arm of your Doctor? Captain? Lover? Whatever title John chooses to entertain tonight." Mycroft states, a tiny smile quirking the corner of his mouth as Sherlock lifts his head haughtily.

 

Mycroft looks over Sherlock's shoulder and raises one eyebrow.

 

"Ah. Captain indeed." He says. 

 

Sherlock turns to see what he means and almost falls to his knees at what he sees.

 

There, across the ballroom, clearly having just arrived and scanning the crowd for Sherlock is Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, in. Full. Military. Dress.

 

Sherlock gasps softly and feels like he's forgotten how to breathe as John plucks his cap from his golden head and situates it neatly under one arm, still scanning the crowd until suddenly those ocean blue eyes find Sherlock.

 

"I'm being beckoned. Do enjoy the party." Mycroft says, smirking openly at Sherlock's dumbfounded expression.

 

"Happy Birthday brother dear." He finishes, and then strides off and into the crowd, presumably to do some much abhorred mingling.

 

John stops in front of Sherlock eyes twinkling with mirth.

 

"Hello love. Happy birthday." He says, leaning up for a chaste kiss, then he grins cheekily and plops his hat atop Sherlock's perfectly coiffed curls.

 

Sherlock grimaces internally at the thought of what his hair will look like when he takes it off. 

 

"Did I manage to surprise you then?" John asks, and Sherlock merely nods his head, unable to find his voice.

 

"Good, because if you behave, there's more to it when we get home." John promises in a low, sultry voice. Grin going razor sharp and wicked at the shudder Sherlock is unable to conceal.

 

"So much more." He whispers into Sherlock ear, then takes his hands and spins him onto the floor for a dance.

 

Sherlock can't remember ever telling John how much he loves to dance, but if he did or didn't, it doesn't matter now.

 

Right now the only thing that matters is that John is waltzing them effortlessly around the room. He's poised and in control and he looks bloody _perfect_.

 

Sherlock he can't imagine missing the chance to dance like this with John.

 

The music stops and so does John. He smiles up at Sherlock with stars in his eyes.

 

"I don't know what I ever did to deserve you. Actually I'm absolutely sure that I do _not_ deserve you." He says, hurrying to continue when Sherlock's brow furrows and he opens his mouth in rebuttal. 

 

"But I'm grateful every single day that you chose me." He finishes in a voice that is only for Sherlock's ears as they sway gently in place, hands clasped between their bodies, completely oblivious to the world around them.

 

\---------------

 

"There. See? The night wasn't so bad after all." John says casually, smirking joyfully as Sherlock hustles him through the door of 221B.

 

Sherlock rips off his coat and scarf then immediately turns back to John.

 

He strokes his fingers over the fabric at John's shoulders, down his lapels, and across the insignia at John's breast denoting his rank.

 

"How did you know?" Sherlock breathes out, entranced.

 

John raises an eyebrow. 

 

"Really? You're not a subtle as you think Sherlock. I let it go at Baskerville because I assumed you were just happy to have gotten in. But then there was the case with Bainbridge, and I'm afraid you rather gave up the goat there love."

 

Sherlock steps back to get the full picture but John takes a step forward and leans in. He leaves a row of wet, sucking kisses along the length of Sherlock's neck then pulls away.

 

"I can never get enough of the way you taste." He murmurs, before taking another step back and gesturing towards Sherlock's chair.

 

"Sit down please." He asks with a smile.

 

Sherlock hesitates.

 

"No, I'm not going to make you watch me wank again." He answers the unspoken question with a chuckle.

 

Sherlock bites at his lower lip and sits. 

 

"Stay here please, I'll be back in 10 minutes love." And he turns and makes his way up the stairs to his room.

 

The door swings shut and John sets about taking off the uniform. Sherlock knows because he hears the tinkling of the belt, the sound of John's wardrobe door opening, the sound of hangers scraping harshly over the bar they're dangling from.

 

He almost groans in frustration. "Why are you taking it off?" He thinks with a disappointed sigh.

 

But then, another sound.

 

A heavy, muffled dragging and a rather loud thump. A box from the back of John's closet. 

 

Sherlock cocks his head and listens more carefully. 

 

The rustle of clothes unfolding. A quiet jingling, similar to keys but lighter. The groaning of the bed frame as John sits. 

 

Then there's nothing.

 

Two entire minutes of absolutely nothing.

 

And then he hears the heavy thudding of boots on the wooden floors above.

 

Boots.

 

Boots?

 

Sherlock looks out to the top of the stairs and his mouth falls open.

 

He breathes out as John descends, well worn combat boots polished to a high shine, army fatigues riding his hips, and shifting with the movement of his well muscled thighs. He's put on beige t shirt that makes his arms and chest look delicious and his war beaten I.D. circles are around his neck just barely reflecting the low light of the lamp.

 

John stops just inside the door and folds his hands behind him, smirking across the room at Sherlock as he falls into an unwitting parade rest.

 

"John." He gasps out, unable to completely take in what he's seeing.

 

"Over here please." John asks, waving at the space directly in front of him.

 

Sherlock strides over and looks down into John's eyes, then let's out a small gasp when John grins up at him and slides his hands under the fabric of Sherlock's jacket, leaving Sherlock no other choice but to draw his arms back and allow John to slip it off.

 

John sets to work at the buttons of his shirt, eyes taking in every newly bared bit of pale skin.

 

He finishes the buttons and tugs the shirttails free, then pushes the two halves of the shirt open and let's his eyes roam greedily over the naked expanse of Sherlock's chest and belly.

 

He leans in and nips lightly at the peak of Sherlock's collar bone, then laves his tongue through the hollow at the base of his throat, and groans.

 

"How do you taste so good?" He asks, feeding the words into Sherlock's skin.

 

"How are you this gorgeous?" He breathes, hands cupping Sherlock's hips and gliding upward over his ribs with easy confidence.

 

"Says the man in the fatigues." Sherlock tosses back at him because _honestly_ , sometimes Sherlock wonders exactly what John sees when he looks in the mirror.

 

John gets a good grip on Sherlock and pushes him against the wall, then leans in and presses a kiss against his sternum.

 

He drags his face across Sherlock's sensitive skin and, without warning, captures the peak of his nipple in his mouth. 

 

Sherlock gasps and his back bows away from the wall.

 

"Fuck!" He spits out through clenched teeth, gripping hard at John's arms.

 

John smiles against his chest and suckles gently before moving to the other.

 

"Oh my God." Sherlock huffs out and John pulls away from him and lifts his arms to tug at his hair.

 

"No." John growls out. 

 

"God's got nothing to do with this. If you call out a name while I touch you, it had better be mine. Clear?" He barks out and Sherlock is sure that if John weren't holding him so tightly he would melt right into the floor.

 

John flicks his thumbs over those sensitive nipples again, just to watch Sherlock jerk.

 

"So responsive, so perfect. Look at you Sherlock how are you _real_?" John breathes before dropping to his knees and kissing across the flat plane of Sherlock's belly and undoing the button of his flies.

 

John drags his teeth across the soft skin of Sherlock's hip and sucks when he reaches the peak of the bone, leaving a small red mark that won't last for longer than an hour or so. Still the sight of his mark on Sherlock's skin makes his blood run hot and he can't help but to bite down on that spot again. Can't help but to make it a little bit darker. Can't help but leave just a little bit more of himself there for Sherlock to find later.

 

Sherlock moans out a long low sound and John stands and pushes Sherlock's trousers to his knees, then reaches down and gently scrapes his fingernails up the insides of those long, lean thighs.

 

"Do you want to come baby?" He asks, lips just barely brushing skin, and Sherlock shivers at the sensation.

 

Sherlock can't think. His eyes flit around in his head and his brain has gone completely blank which would be terrifying if it weren't John that was the cause of it all. But here he isn't worried.

 

He knows he's safe.

 

He's always safe with John.

 

So, naturally. He blurts the first thing that comes to mind.

 

"No." He rasps out.

 

John smiles a small secret smile and looks up into Sherlock's eyes.

 

"And why is that?" He asks.

 

"I want to wait. For you." He answers lamely, unable to articulate as clearly as he usually would.

 

"For me? You could have me at anytime love. You know exactly what you need to do to have me." John says softly, running his lips over the line of Sherlock's jaw. 

 

Before Sherlock can even decide if he wants to reply to that or not John grips Sherlock's forearms in his hands and pins them to the wall, then he steps in close. 

 

So close

 

Too close

 

John drags his tongue over Sherlock's nipple and _grinds_ against him dragging a ragged moan from deep inside Sherlock's chest.

 

John pulls away and backs a few paces further into the room.

 

Sherlock takes takes two steps in John's direction and his knees give. The next he knows he's kneeling in the middle of the sitting room, panting, staring up at John in hazy adoration.

 

John steps forward and cups Sherlock's face in one hand.

 

"So what's your kink then?" John asks crisply. Stepping back and circling Sherlock slowly. A predator locked onto willing prey.

 

"Do you want to be a soldier? Want me to give you orders? Make you do press ups until you're shaking in exhaustion so I can fuck you while you lie helpless on the floor?" He purrs from behind him, being sure to lean in a bit and crowd Sherlock's space.

 

John moves to the front of Sherlock and wraps his hand around that gorgeous neck and strokes lightly with his thumb.

 

"Or do you want me to take you?" He asks gruffly, thumb moving gently over that smooth skin, the tenderness of the action a perfect counterpoint to the harshness of his voice.

 

"Do you want me to bite you? Mark you? Brand you as mine? Shall I lay you out on my bed and surround you with my scent? Get you hot and slick and _open_ for me, so I can slide deep inside you over and over until you cry for me to please _please_ let you come?" John asks, that wicked grin stretching his perfect lips.

 

John leans down and hovers his lips just over Sherlock's, thumb still stroking softly over his pulse point.

"Do you want to be my war prize baby?" 

 

Sherlock let's out a choked moan and before he can think about it his mouth is moving without his permission.

 

"Please." He whispers, loud enough that he knows John heard him and there's no taking it back. 

 

He expects John to throw it in his face. 

 

The great Sherlock Holmes, begging on his knees the way he said he'd never done and would never do.

 

He should know better than to expect the ordinary from John.

 

"That's very good baby." John praises instead, taking the now familiar six steps back.

 

"Ask for it. All of it. Crawl for me love, and I will give you everything. Anything you want that is within in my power to give will be yours." John growls out, desperate to _finally_ have at the gorgeous man knelt before him.

 

Sherlock opens his mouth, looks up at John... and he can't do it. His airway blocks itself off and his limbs feel weighty and heavy, as if they've been filled with lead. 

 

"I can't." He whispers, missing the feel of John's hands on his skin.

 

He reaches out with one hand, needing that connection that only John can give him.

 

"John, I need to feel you. _Please._ " He whimpers, yearning for more. 

 

"Oh no baby, you decided to wait remember?" John taunts.

 

"You know the rules, so what's it going to be love? How badly do you want Captain Watson in your bed tonight?" He asks, goading Sherlock along. Trying to pull him out of that place where ego and pride are even words with real meaning.

 

John watches Sherlock's usual arrogance war with his current desperation and takes pity, tonight won't be the night, but it was close enough that the night they're both longing for can't be too far off. John hopes his patience can stand the test.

 

"Apparently not as badly as I'd hoped." John says thoughtfully. 

 

He executes a perfect military turn and walks out onto the landing before he remembers.

 

"Oh! I almost forgot" John exclaims, turning back to Sherlock and stalking over to where he is, still kneeling, in the centre of the room.

 

John bends in low and lifts his dog tags from around his neck, before slipping them neatly over Sherlock's head and pressing them into place against his chest with a strong hand. 

 

"Happy Birthday love." John says in a low tone, leaning in to give him one last, filthy kiss, and then he's gone. Stomping up the stairs in those perfect bloody boots, leaving Sherlock alone on the floor, mind positively _racing_.

 

Sherlock wants to go and grab him, to take his shoulders and shake him. To make John understand that he's never wanted anything more than he wants Captain Watson but he doesn't know how to make himself beg for it this way.

 

He wants to run up the stairs and fall to his knees. To prostrate himself at the altar of John's bed and beg for his touch. For something, everything, _anything_ other than another night lying awake in the darkness with this _craving_ carving out whole pieces of his sanity.

 

He doesn't.

 

Instead he pulls himself up onto the sofa, grips John's dog tags in one large palm, and wonders what it would be like to give himself over completely. 

 

Twenty minutes later his phone lights up on the table with a text.

 

'Come to bed love.' 

 

Sherlock smiles and stands up from the sofa.

 

Captain Watson indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys liked this one, because oh boy was it a monster to work on. Next chapter is the last! See you on Wednesday!


	6. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"What do you need love?" He asks sweetly, leaning up to peck Sherlock's cheek._
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> _"Just, stay right here, alright?" Sherlock asks._
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> _"Alright." John says with a slight shrug, mildly confused but happy to help with whatever Sherlock's got in mind._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter darlings! I hope you enjoy it! I know it's late but I'm usually off work on Wednesdays, today I was not off. 
> 
> Technically it's 11:21 and its still Wednesday for me! 
> 
> Alright, I'll shut up now, enjoy!

When it finally happens, no one plans anything and it's just a normal day at Baker Street.

Well, for whatever constitutes John and Sherlock's very particular brand 'normal'.

 

*************

 

Sherlock wakes first the next morning and spends exactly 23 and three quarter minutes observing John in slumber before John wakes and turns to him with a smile.

 

"Good morning love. What's going on in that big brain that big brain of yours?" He asks, rubbing a thumb over the small furrow between Sherlock's brows.

 

"Would you crawl for me John?" Sherlock asks quietly.

 

John's answer is immediate.

 

"Over broken glass baby. You know that." John responds, pressing a sweet kiss to Sherlock's head.

 

Sherlock buries his face in John neck and takes in slow, deep pulls of his scent.

 

"Yes. Yes I do." Sherlock replies softly, and John just smiles and runs his warm palm up and down Sherlock's back.

 

The quiet moment is interrupted a few moments later by the chime of Sherlock's text tone.

 

Sherlock reaches over to the nightstand and takes a look, then hops up out of bed.

 

"There's been a kidnapping." He says, moving in a flurry of motion.

 

John bounds of the bed as well and starts dragging on clothes as Sherlock rushes down the stairs to get dressed himself, and within 15 minutes of the text they're in a cab, and on their way to New Scotland Yard.

 

When they get there, what they find is Greg and Sally in a conference room with around 10 other officers and a monitor in the centre of the table with a woman, bound to a wooden chair and gagged with a scrap of dirty cloth, terrified tears rolling down her face, and a timer in the corner counting down to her presumable demise.

 

Around hour three, John sips the cold coffee in his hand and makes a face, then gets closer to the screen and clucks his tongue.

 

"Poor woman, her feet must be freezing. The least the bastard could have done was leave her somewhere dry." He sighs out sympathetically.

 

Sherlock's head snaps up and he looks back at the screen, then shuts his eyes.

 

John watches them flit to and fro under their lids, and then flash back open. 

 

Sherlock grabs a pen and a scrap of paper and writes three addresses on it.

 

"She's at one of these three warehouses. Send a two man team to each location and you'll find her long before the timer expires." He finishes, making to sweep his way from the room when Anderson pipes up.

 

"That woman is the wife of a man we all know and respect, how do we know you aren't just jerking us around because you're bored?" He spits.

 

Sherlock rounds in him.

 

"The water is rising, not by much yet, but still, it was barely enough to coat the floor when we first got here, now it's nearly up to her ankles, and it's a very particular shade of disgusting. Clearly Thames water. So the tide is due to come in soon. Coryton then, given the current time. The sun is setting outside the windows behind her, so she's on the east side of the river. There are only three vacant warehouses in Coryton, on the east side of the river, with the original stone archways over the windows" he says, pointing to the rounded top of the window frames on the screen. 

 

"And I just gave your superior their addresses." He finishes.

 

Lestrade and Sally fly into action, but Anderson isn't done.

 

"Oh right. Let's all just take the word of the freak shall we?" He complains.

 

"Your insults would maybe bear at least a modicum of meaning of I weren't constantly doing your job for you." Sherlock snaps and then turns to leave.

 

"Wait!" Lestrade calls.

 

"Aren't you coming?" He asks.

 

"No of course not." Sherlock responds. 

 

"She's been through a traumatic experience, and no one has ever used the word 'comforting' as it pertains to my personality. Come along John." He says, and John, who had been smiling in quiet awe stands to leave, as Sherlock sweeps out of the room with a dramatic swish of his coat.

 

Lestrade and Sally hurry out, the remaining officers except Anderson trailing quickly behind them as John buttons up his jacket, while Anderson collects all the papers on the table and stuffs them into file folders.

 

"Good little doggy. Always goes running when Master calls." Anderson spits out.

 

Outside the door Sherlock freezes, wondering if John is about to reveal him to Anderson in a very male need to stroke his own ego.

 

He needn't have worried.

 

John just laughs Anderson's face.

 

"Sally stopped scrubbing your floors then?" He asks with a vicious smile.

 

"Only, everyone was wondering when she'd realize how hideously overqualified she was for the job." He says in that polite tone he has that means he's very close to snapping. He cocks his head and lifts an eyebrow, daring Anderson to reply. When there's nothing forthcoming John turns and strides casually from the room.

 

He rounds the corner and almost slams directly into Sherlock.

 

He smiles up at him.

 

"You were brilliant love, absolutely amazing." John cups Sherlock's cheek gently, then let's his hand drop. 

 

"We for Baker Street then?" John asks as they make their way to he elevator.

 

"Yes John, Baker Street." Sherlock replies as the elevator doors close behind them.

 

\------------------

 

Sherlock is twitchy. The case was too easy. He feels too large for his own skin, pulled taut and he's positively vibrating with the excess energy.

 

He hops up from his chair and disappears into the loo for a hot shower. 

 

Sherlock shuts his eyes, stands under the spray, and nods his head. Tonight then.

 

"Shower's free." He calls out to John and then slips into his room and shuts the door silently.

 

Sherlock lotions his skin, puts on pants and pyjamas, then wraps himself in his blue dressing gown, and tries not to psych himself out.

 

He hears John come out of the bathroom and trek up the stairs to get dressed.

 

A few moments later he's back on the stairs and then he's settling into his chair to read whatever awful spy novel he'll have picked up.

 

Sherlock takes a deep breath. 

 

Now or never.

 

He walks out into the sitting room, and stops a few paces from the door.

 

"John, could you come over here for just a second?" He asks politely.

 

His tone makes John look up in confusion because it's not like Sherlock to ask for things, let alone kindly. When Sherlock doesn't offer an explanation he sets his book down and strides over to where Sherlock is standing. 

 

"What do you need love?" He asks sweetly, leaning up to peck Sherlock's cheek.

 

"Just, stay right here, alright?" Sherlock asks.

 

"Alright." John says with a slight shrug, mildly confused but happy to help with whatever Sherlock's got in mind. 

 

He doesn't expect this.

 

Sherlock pulls off his dressing gown, cool blue silk gently caressing warm pale skin as it slides free of his arms, and tosses it on the sofa, then pulls off his pyjama bottoms and leaves them with his robe. 

 

He returns to John, standing toe to toe, takes seven very deliberate steps back, and folds fluidly to his knees.

 

He kneels there for a moment, in nothing but small black pants and John's dog tags, taking deep gulps of air and trying to relax.

 

Just when he thinks he's going to freeze up again, John, beautiful, wonderful, _perfect_ John starts to speak.

 

"Hey, none of that love. There's no need for a panic. It's only me baby. It's just John. Your John. And I would never do _anything_ to hurt you. You don't have to do this Sherlock. This doesn't have to be a part of what we are." He says, sincerity gleaming bright in midnight blue eyes.

 

_My John_

 

Sherlock smiles, catches John's gaze, and crawls slowly, elegant and graceful across the sitting room floor, stopping when he reaches John, and kneeling there at his feet.

 

"God you're _perfect_." John praises, and Sherlock feels a flush steal up his throat.

 

"The masters would have sold their souls just for the chance to glimpse your beauty. Their greatest scultures pale in comparison to your perfection Sherlock." John breathes out, burying his hands in Sherlock's still damp curls.

 

John leans down and brushes his lips gently over Sherlock's.

 

"I am going to leave you insensate with pleasure." He whispers into Sherlock's mouth.

 

"Are you ready baby?" John asks and Sherlock nods.

 

"Use words Sherlock."

 

Sherlock nods again.

 

"I'm ready John." He says, voice low and smooth.

 

"My bedroom then, if you please." John says kindly, and Sherlock smiles. 

 

"Absolutely." 

 

Once upstairs John shuts the door behind him, and pulls his vest over his head.

 

"Take off your pants and lie down on the bed baby." He instructs, and Sherlock hesitates for just a moment before he shakes himself and pulls the pants down his legs and off, then slips into the bed and lies down on his back without a word.

 

"Very very good love." John compliments, and Sherlock can't help the flare in his chest at the words. All he wants in the world right now is to be good for John Watson.

 

John goes over to his dresser and pulls out a short length of blue silk rope. He ties a quick knot in each end, then loops the rope around one of the slats on his headboard and pulls it through, creating a quick slip knot.

 

He pulls the ends apart and draws Sherlock's arms gently up over his head, placing one end of the rope in each of his hands. 

 

"You let go of the rope, and I stop everything I'm doing immediately. Understand?" He asks.

 

"Yes." Sherlock whispers.

 

"I mean it Sherlock, if you don't like something or you've had enough, let go and say stop, alright?" John presses.

 

"Yes John, I promise. I'll stop you if I need to." Sherlock nods.

 

"Alright then, let's have a little fun." John says with a low chuckle.

 

He kneels up over Sherlock's legs and peers down at him with a smirk.

 

"Look at you. Pretty pretty, naughty Sherlock all spread out and waiting just for me." John taunts as he drags his fingertips down Sherlock's chest to his belly, making him twitch. 

 

"Haughty detective. Most brilliant man anyone ever met." John says, stopping to suck at the bone of Sherlock's hip.

 

"Certified arsehole. Only too happy to drag out anyone's skeletons and shine a bloody spotlight on them." John leans down and nips lightly at the skin over one of Sherlock's ribs.

 

"Above and oblivious to the petty needs of mere humans." John's voice is smug and self congratulatory as he swipes his tongue across Sherlock's collar bone

 

"Unattainable. Untouchable." He breathes against Sherlock's skin.

 

"But for who?" He asks, lips just barely brushing the soft peak of a nipple.

 

Sherlock gasps

 

"Who do you beg for Sherlock?" He asks, tongue coming out to flick against the now hardened nub.

 

He reaches up and taps a finger against the tags pooled at Sherlock's neck.

 

"Who do you call Captain?" John queries softly as he trails biting, sucking kisses down the long unblemished length of Sherlock's torso. 

 

Sherlock groans low in his throat, thrusting up into the air.

 

"Please John, _please_. I can't. I need-" He gasps, past the point of begging already, only to end abruptly on a broken moan as John bends down and laps the flat of his tongue softly over the velvety head of Sherlock's cock.

 

Sherlock cries out loudly as John suckles at him gently. 

 

It's hot and slick and intense and-

 

"Sogoodsogoodsogood." He pants, not even completely aware that he's speaking.

 

John bobs his head and takes Sherlock in deeper, grinning around the cock between his lips when Sherlock's back bows up off the bed, pulled up from his chest as if by an invisible thread, arms stretched taught above him as his body attempts to jolt upright with the shock of pleasure.

 

John pulls off of Sherlock's cock with a slow, firm suck and a slick pop then he leans in, presses Sherlock's legs in at the knees with strong hands, and laves the flat of his tongue directly across the pale pink furl of Sherlock's hole.

 

"FUCK!" Sherlock screams at the ceiling, hands squeezing even tighter at the rope in his hands. 

 

John circles his tongue around the clenching pucker and sucks a kiss onto it, making Sherlock buck his hips up and whine as he attempts to grind down onto John's tongue.

 

John presses Sherlock's hips onto the bed with his hands, holding him immobile and thrusts his tongue inside, once, twice, again and again until Sherlock is squirming above him, an unbroken stream of pleas falling from his lips.

 

"Inside, inside, please inside John, _please_." He begs and John pulls away and sits up on his knees to peer down at the beautiful man spread out before him,

 

He reaches across Sherlock and grabs the lube from the bedside table, but when Sherlock sees it he loses all control and starts thrashing about. Spreading his legs wide and thrusting up into nothing, wanting and _needing_ John to finally fill him.

 

"Stay still for me baby." John says, petting the insides of Sherlock's milky thighs softly. 

 

"Can you do that? Can you be still for me love?" John asks, knowing full well that Sherlock can't catch his breath enough to answer. 

 

Sherlock calms.

 

Trembling with the effort of staying still when all he wants to do is buck and writhe and _grind_ until he comes, Sherlock nods his head and let's out a slow breath.

 

"Good boy." John purrs, pouring lube into one hand and spreading it generously across his fingers.

 

John slips his fingers between Sherlock's cheeks, swipes the excess lube on them across his hole, and smirks when Sherlock moans.

 

"Insensate with pleasure." John reminds him, and he slides one broad blunt finger inside Sherlock's tight heat, twisting his wrist and watching his lover choke out a moan when he grazes his prostate with a doctor's precision.

 

John presses his free hand flat against Sherlock belly to keep him still, and fucks him slowly with one finger until Sherlock is gasping.

 

"Please please please John please." He pleads.

 

John pulls out, adds another finger and presses them inside.

 

Sherlock's hips jerk, and John knows he would be rutting wildly against nothing at all if he weren't holding him in place.

 

"Who do you crawl for Sherlock?" John asks, voice low and hoarse with arousal, his cock throbbing achingly in his pants.

 

"Who do you belong to?" He growls out.

 

And finally, Sherlock breaks.

 

"You. You. Only ever you. It's always been you John." He sobs.

 

"Perfect. That's perfect baby." He says as he slides a third finger inside Sherlock's slick heat.

 

"Inside me John. I've never wanted anything so badly in my life. _Please_." Sherlock pants out, fully expecting to be denied again, and almost crying out in victory when John's hands go to the waistband of his pyjama bottoms and drag them down.

 

And finally, _finally_ Sherlock can see.

 

"Jesus John." He gasps, eyes going wide in awe. He's so transfixed he almost let's go of the rope to reach out and touch. Then he remembers himself and redoubles his grip.

 

God he's thick and hard, and that monster is 19 centimeters _minimum _. It's ruddy pink at the head and glistening with precum.__

"Yes. Now." Sherlock breathes out. He's so turned on it hurts and he _needs_ like never before.

John spreads more lube on his cock, leans in, and positions himself just outside of Sherlock, the head of him barely brushing against Sherlock's hole.

He doesn't bother asking if Sherlock is ready again, Sherlock's been ready for _weeks_.

John pushes inside in one long, slow, slick thrust. He stills once he's bottomed out and grits his teeth against the urge to thrust and rut and take and _claim_.

Sherlock has no such reservations.

He rocks his hips up against John and tosses his head back against the bed with pleasure when the winding of his hips forces the head of John's cock to brush against his prostate.

John watches Sherlock writhe on his cock for a moment, just to take in the delicious sight, then he gets a good grip on Sherlock's hips and pulls out, before thrusting in and up hard, pounding directly into Sherlock's sweet spot.

"YES!" Sherlock screams, arms shaking in fatigue and thighs trembling around John's waist.

John pulls out and thrusts back in hard, over and over, again and again.

He batters Sherlock's body with pleasure, plucking at his nipples and leaning forward to bite at his neck.

But it's when John slips his hands under Sherlock's head and tugs firmly at those dark, sweat damp curls, that Sherlock loses himself to the hot coils of bliss squirming in his belly. 

His eyes go wide, and he stares unseeing at the ceiling, mouth stretched open with a silent scream, pleasure racing through his veins, and John ploughing into him, allowing no rest or respite from the waves of overwhelming ecstasy threatening to drag him under.

"Are you going to come for me baby? God you feels amazing." John huffs out and nips lightly at the shell of his ear, before untangling one hand from the silky curls it had been buried in, and reaching down between them to fist Sherlock's cock.

That touch is all it takes. Sherlock draws in a quick breath, his body pulls taut, and then he's spilling over John's fingers, thick ropes of milky white liquid splattering his belly as he moans out his satisfaction before slumping back against the bed in exhaustion.

The tight, hot, rhythmic clenching of Sherlock's body around his cock sends John flying over a cliff he hadn't even realized he was at. He was so intent, so focused on watching Sherlock fall apart that his own orgasm crept up on him, whiting out his vision and wracking him with full body shudders.

John pulls out of him gently and flops down on the bed beside Sherlock, then drags Sherlock over to him, and wraps his arms around the sticky, pliant, sated mess of his lover.

Sherlock hums and nuzzles John's neck, drawing in closer.

John shifts to get up, but Sherlock grips him tightly and pulls him back down.

"I'm just going to get a flannel and a glass of water love. I'll be right back." John says, kissing Sherlock's lips sweetly.

Sherlock shakes his head.

"Not yet. Can we stay like this? Just for a little while?" He asks.

"Of course love." John responds, holding Sherlock tighter at the thin note of vulnerability in his voice.

John fights sleep, but almost loses, until Sherlock calls his name softly in the darkness.

"John?" He asks.

"Yes love?"

"Can we try the uniform again?" Sherlock asks, and John can feel his mischievous grin against the skin of his chest.

John smirks even though he knows Sherlock probably can't see it.

"Sure baby, of course you know that you'll have to do something to _earn it_ right?" He asks, eyes glittering in the low light of the moon.

"Yes sir." Sherlock breathes.

John leans down and bites gently at Sherlock's plush lower lip.

"Good boy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! If you did drop me a line and let me know, I'd love to hear from you! 
> 
> You guys are amazing!


	7. Chapter 7

Hey guys, this fic is now part of a series, and the next piece is up! It's called [Earn It](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7690387/chapters/17519515) and I hope you'll give it a try!

**Author's Note:**

> [Here](http://sebastiansin-221b.tumblr.com/post/139143220468/could-you-maybe-do-something-where-sherlock-tells) is the original prompt in case you're interested.


End file.
